


Breathless Lullaby

by orphan_account



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace tries to take Helena's fate in her own hands.</p><p>"The room has been prepared for its return. The afternoon’s angled rays are filtered by green cloth drapes. An old voice recorder projects the soft, melodic voice of a woman singing “Rock-A-Bye-Baby” from the far corner of the room."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: this story is written through an unsympathetic narrator and so Helena's rape appears (at first) to be minimized. If this subject matter is triggering, please take care of yourself. 
> 
> "Rock-a-bye-baby in a treetop  
> When the wind blows, the cradle will rock  
> When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall  
> And down will come baby, cradle and all."

The room has been prepared for its return. The afternoon’s angled rays are filtered by green cloth drapes. An old voice recorder projects the soft, melodic voice of a woman singing “Rock-A-Bye-Baby” from the far corner of the room. I was assigned the task of restoring the soiled bed sheets to its previous shade of virginal white. In two days, it managed to excrete floods of sweat, blood, and urine like some frightened animal. As if it had anything to fear.

No amount of washing can purify my hands of that reek, which dripped from its body like battery acid. Now my hands are blotchy and pink from scrubbing under the scalding water; all of this trouble for a demon in white.

The familiar _click-click_ of my Father’s boots resonates from the stairs, signaling the return of the vessel. A surge of delight spreads through my family in the form of excited whispers and caressing hands. 

I bite my tongue and watch as it is lowered onto the fresh, white sheets. It’s wearing a new dress made of the same material, but with a different pattern of lace. I press my swollen fingertips together, remembering the quick sting of the needle as I stitched every seam.

“What happened to the dress I made?”

Father holds out his hands and waits for me to slide mine into his grip. His palms are rough and wide with particles of dirt caught in the crevices—a good man can never truly get his hands clean. All but two fingernails are white and smooth, like crescent moons extending from his fingertips. His other two nails are raised slightly by a thick, red substance stuck underneath. Dried blood. 

His sanguine eyes contain the sky, and all that exists above it.

“The Lord was gracious,” he says, “He supplied us with an angel untouched.”

A gentle murmur of praise spreads through the crowd.

“Don’t worry, Grace, your dress has served its purpose,” my mother says from the crowd. Her hands are clasped under her chin in half-prayer.

“Amazing that such purity remained intact despite her years of darkness,” says Mark. His eyes rove along the demon’s sleeping figure. Father lets go of my hands and touches his shoulder.

“God’s design is immaculate,” he says, and turns to the crowd, “Let’s go downstairs and let Him work.” 

In a moment of shuffling, the room empties of all but me, it, and the melodic voice of a recorded lullaby.

I step closer to the demon and listen to its long, heavy sighs of sleep.

 It looks beastly in every way. Dark roots fester beneath its ratted mane of blonde, curly hair. Despicably, it must have attempted to mask its corruption through bleach. Its face occasionally crinkles with a violent twitch that lifts its cheek and reveals the sharp canines glittering beneath.

 I imagine flies swarming in its mouth. The little black bodies collide in their multitude and the flimsy, white membrane of their wings rub and rustle. Restless and hungry, they tear at the meat behind its teeth.

“Stupid animal,” I mutter, “Everyone thinks you’re so precious, but you ate yourself dumb.”

Its face twitches again and this time it is accompanied by a low, humming sound from deep within its throat. We may have crushed sleeping pills into its food, but even an animal can taste laced food.  

A single line of dried sweat trails from the corner of its eyes. Or maybe that isn’t sweat—       

Its eyes are open.

Crouching at the knees, I lean in to watch it carefully. A small stretch of white eye flickers under the heavy drapes of its hooded eyelids.

Quickly, I poke its cheek and watch as the skin dimples under my finger. It remains placid under the veil of sleep. Dark lashes curl out from its half-closed lids like spindly spider legs.   

“Asleep,” I sigh, laughing gently. “Of course, it would sleep with its eyes open.”

If the stupid thing were awake, it would probably eat itself back into comatose.

“Whatever poor creature that came out of you would be a monster,” I muse out-loud, watching as it takes another wretched breath.  

The poor child, I can picture it now: Not one blanket could properly wrap around its mangled legs shaped into fleshy, cloven hooves. It would bleat wildly in an inhuman tongue, terrified by its own dark existence.

Father couldn’t bear to know that his child, his own flesh and blood, was a monster. The mere knowledge would destroy him. _Maybe_ …

My eyes fall upon the white pillow under its head. The slightest pressure would send it off to eternal sleep, as sweet as a lullaby. It would be cruel to let the child suffer in the arms of this monster.

Almost on their own accord, my hands slowly pry the pillow from under its head. One hand cups the base of its neck, tipping the head up as the other hand pulls the pillow away.

“Go back to Hell where you belong—“

Its eyes snap wide open.  

I drop her head and stumble back with the pillow held fiercely before my chest. Every muscle thickens together in a moment of terror-stricken paralysis as its eyes lock onto mine. They are black coals without the warmth of fire; they are wide tunnels burrowed deep in her skull, connecting to Hell. She is apparently still affected by the drug as she stares at me in unmoving silence. The paralysis drains from my bones and is immediately replaced by a deep sense of responsibility.

 _Rock-a-bye-baby in a treetop_ …

I leap forward and cement both sides of the pillow against its head. My legs wrap around its thrusting chest and I can feel its heart pounding beneath me. This heart performed the original sin; the seed nestled deep into the wrong side of her chest and thrived when it should have collapsed. From then, muscle, bone, and flesh sprouted from it with unnatural strength, and created the monster that suffers today.

 _When the wind blows, the cradle will rock_ …

Its claws find my own and dig into my skin; its nails are no more than bloody nubs, but they tear with unforgiving ferocity. A deep and bellowing growl grows from the back of its throat, only slightly muffled by the pillow.  

_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall…_

It bucks its hips, ripping the pillow off for a moment, and I slam it back down over its head. But it grows stronger with each buck, and I can feel my grip loosen. I tense my whole body, tightening my legs around its waist in preparation for the next maddened buck. But this time, its hips pivot to the side, rolling us both off the bed.

My back hits the floor with a loud _thump_ , and I silently pray my father heard it. I imagine him running up the stairs as the creature tears the pillow from my grasp. It swings its leg over my waist and straddles me, entirely reversing our previous position.  

_And down will come baby, cradle and all…_

One hand is flush against my neck with fingers gripping the delicate outline of my throbbing trachea.  The pressure hits me immediately and my vision grows blurry at the sudden lack of oxygen. The other hand caresses my cheek with a soft palm; its thumb pulls down on my lower lip almost playfully. Father will come at any moment, when it's distracted. He'll save me, I'm sure. 

Only an inch separates me from it, I can't escape.

There is nowhere to look, no way to turn my head, and no escape; I have to look into its eyes and it has to look into mine.

Settled in the pit of its eyes, behind the hazy veil of the drug, lies a dangerous clarity, a dark understanding of what has been done. Its nothing like the dumb, flat eyes of the cows waddling to their slaughter. Its fingers tighten around my throat.  

I strain to hear the distant _click-click_ of my father’s shoes, but it doesn't come. “Daddy—“

“Shh,” it breathes, and places a finger over my mouth, “Grace must be quiet now.”

There is something deeply disturbing in the way it speaks; its tongue severs each word with a heavy accent and a demented voice.

"Are you going to kill me?" I can barely manage to say it and each word falls from my trembling lips. 

"No," it says, voice achingly hollow. 

I can feel its breath heavy and wet against my cheek, smelling distinctly of vomit.

There must have been the smell of cooked meat or sweet grapes, but all that remains now is the pungent trace of swallowed bile. It loosens its grip when my vision begins to blur, leaving me weak and trembling. 

"What are you going to do?"

In that moment, the faint _click-click_ of my father's boots is heard going up the stairs. Joyous relief makes my heart soar, suddenly light, and I imagine my father wrestling the creature off me, finally understanding what I knew all along.

I look back at it with a victorious smile, only to find that its expression mirrors my own. 

Every muscle in my body shudders; dread congeals in my stomach at the sound of my father's boots before the door.

Its hand weaves through my hair, fingers twisting as the other hand caresses my forehead. Dread congeals in my stomach at the sound of my father's boots before the closed door. 

"Grace? Are you in there?" He asks, and its hand slides over my mouth.

"Daddy," the creature whispers in a sick imitation of my voice.

The doorknob turns, and a crack of light spills in.

"Goodnight, child," it sings in my ear, "Have sweet dreams."

Then, it drives my head to the ground with a quick shove, and everything goes black. 

 


End file.
